


Celestial

by stelladora



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7918666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelladora/pseuds/stelladora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was ironic, he knew; so much of his work was dependent on storms, on the electrical current generated from a lightning strike, much more powerful than anything he could muster up himself. Only something celestial, something beyond man’s control, something…terrifying and beautiful and deadly could do what he strove to do. He needed storms. And yet Victor was afraid."</p>
<p>Victor and Ethan share a bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Celestial

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure self-indulgent fluff, and I hope you enjoy it.

It was ironic, he knew; so much of his work was dependent on storms, on the electrical current generated from a lightning strike, much more powerful than anything he could muster up himself. Only something celestial, something beyond man’s control, something…terrifying and beautiful and deadly could do what he strove to do. He needed storms. And yet Victor was afraid.

They had been gathered in the study for a while, talking about the latest developments, whiling away an idle hour when it started raining. Pouring, in fact—the wind blew the drops down in torrents, so violent that the sky was grey as if a fog had enveloped the city. There was no question of either him or Mr. Chandler leaving Sir Malcolm’s house. And so now, sequestered for the night (or at least the duration of the storm), Doctor Frankenstein and Mr. Chandler sat in the gas-lit guest room, the latter preparing for bed. The doctor, on the other hand, stood uneasily at the window, glaring mistrustfully at the scene outside.

Eventually, Mr. Chandler joined him at the window. Victor could feel the man’s presence like a static charge just behind his right shoulder. “I always liked storms. It don’t rain like this out where I come from.” Victor was silent; the comment didn’t seem to warrant a real response. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Victor repeated, not bothering to turn around and face the man he spoke to.

“You been watching outside for hours, since it started raining. You like storms?”

“No.” It seemed too terse a response, even for him. Social decorum prompted him further, “I have something of an aversion to them, in fact.”

“Is that so? You’ve been looking out the window like you’d kill the weather itself with your bare hands, if you could,” Mr. Chandler chuckled. Always so amiable, unflappable. Admirable.

“Well, we all have the odd thing that brings up bad memories, don’t we?” Victor said, his voice barely above a whisper as he finally turned and faced Mr. Chandler. The other man was closer than Victor had anticipated, and he found himself locking eyes with him for a long moment.

“Suppose so.” The moment passed—Victor moved away from the window into the middle of the room, finding more space to breathe. “You want the bed or the sofa?” Mr. Chandler finally asked him.

“What? Oh. It doesn’t matter to me. I won’t be sleeping,” Victor said dismissively.

“Suit yourself,” Mr. Chandler said, and moved to the side of the large bed. (Every bed he’d seen in this house seemed large to him—all the furnishings reinforced Sir Malcolm’s wealth and status, and contrasted starkly with the furnishings in Victor’s own humble hovel.) Mr. Chandler stopped before turning back the blankets, his hand hovering above them for a second before he looked up at Victor again. “I can sleep in the study, if…that’d make you more comfortable,” Mr. Chandler said quietly.

The American was rarely that quiet, that uncertain-sounding. Victor met his gaze, confused, brow furrowed, on the verge of asking why Mr. Chandler assumed he was uncomfortable.

Vanessa’s voice came back to him in answer (but no, of course it wasn’t Vanessa, it was that thing, that demon)— _Did you fuck him, or did he fuck you?_

They never talked about it. About what she’d said, the evil things she knew about their lives, what she’d accused them of in that state. They never talked about it. Victor stood silently for a moment, the realization of Mr. Chandler’s meaning rolling through his mind. “No. No, that’s…It has nothing to do with that, rest assured.”

Mr. Chandler nodded once, then sat down on the edge of the bed. Both men retreated into their own thoughts. Victor went back to the window, pulled to it as if by a magnet. He could nearly feel the silence between them, thick and heavy like the rain outside. Something in Victor softened, then, as he watched the sky brighten periodically, heard the thunder roll ever closer. Something made him feel like opening a part of himself he’d kept locked away for many years.

“I was a child when my mother died,” he began quietly. He could feel Mr. Chandler’s eyes at his back. “She and I were very close. I was…deeply affected by her death. It spurred my career, in fact. But…every night for a week, afterwards, there were terrible storms. The whole house shook. And I lay in my bed in the darkness, watching the sky writhe…and I wondered, if my mother’s soul was trying to get to Heaven, how would she ever find her way in such a storm? Why would God conspire to keep her out, she, the most beautiful, most kind, the purest soul I had ever known? ...I never felt more alone than I did while those storms raged in the night.”

“You’re not alone anymore, Doctor,” Mr. Chandler said.

_Boy! Virgin-doctor!_ Vanessa’s shrieks echoed in his skull, and Victor scoffed quietly.

“Is that so,” he said muttered. “I certainly haven’t had _your_ luck in that department.”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Chandler said, having not yet made up his mind to be offended.

“You know what I mean,” Victor said. He suddenly felt like a fool, having shared something like that with Mr. Chandler, above all people. The man who constantly antagonized him, who was loud and overwhelming and infuriating.

“No, I’m not sure I do. Elucidate, will you?” Mr. Chandler said, standing and drawing himself up to his full height.

Unwilling to back down, Victor took a step closer to him. “You’ve got half of London falling at your feet, don’t you? And why? It can hardly be for your refinement, or your family background,” Victor said cuttingly.

“Maybe it’s because I’m not so goddamn morbid all the time. Lighten up, kid. Not everything has to be your own personal battle with the universe,” Mr. Chandler said, clearly trying to contain himself.

“Ah, I’ll take that advice,” Victor said sarcastically. He stopped, frowning theatrically, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Though, tell me, does that work on women as well, or is it just for luring men to your bed?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Victor realized he had made a grave error. But it was too late. Mr. Chandler nearly leapt across the room, his hand to Victor’s throat, holding him pinned to the wall. Fear coursed through Victor’s brain, making his blood pump, making his heart race, making him tremble, making him stare helplessly into Mr. Chandler’s dark brown eyes, now burning bright with rage.

“It would be impolite of me to stain Sir Malcolm’s carpet with your blood. But rest assured, you bring that up again, and I’ll forget my manners.” Mr. Chandler’s voice was icy cold, quiet, fiercely controlled but boiling beneath the surface, a force ready to be unleashed. He loosed his grip on Victor, letting the doctor breathe deeply, angrily.

“You have none,” Victor spat. “That much is evident.”

Scowling, Mr. Chandler gave him one last shove before releasing him and stalking to the other end of the room, like a tiger in a cage. He laughed, a sound little more than a scoff. “Of all the things I’ve done in my life, it would be damn ironic if they finally put me in jail for having another man’s cock up my ass,” he said bitterly.

Victor was struck by the vulgarity of that statement. His shock was what initially prevented him from replying. The subsequent factor was the crash of thunder that erupted just outside the window, as if the storm were trying to break inside. Victor gasped loudly (embarrassingly), and even Mr. Chandler’s gaze snapped to the storm raging outside. That was a second before the gas lights hissed and went out.

The room was significantly darker, with only the small glow from the burnt-down fire in the grate to cast flickering shadows against the walls. It was eerie. “There…must have been some rupture in the pipeline. Turn the valves off.” Victor and Mr. Chandler each checked the small lamps mounted on the walls, making sure there were no leaks. They worked in silence, each apparently willing to let the former tension pass. The storm was getting worse, though Victor hadn’t thought that was possible. It was passing right over them now.

“All the doors and windows are shut, yes?” Victor eventually asked quietly.

“Yeah. Earlier this evening.”

“Good.” More silence. Not the companionable sort he felt when the group was in the study, each working on their separate pursuits. The silence between himself and Mr. Chandler weighed on him, pressing against his very soul. Guilt nagged at him. “I’m sorry,” Victor managed quietly, staring now at the fire instead of the window, instead of Mr. Chandler. “I shouldn’t have brought that up. Your business is your own. Rest assured, this will be the last time I mention it, to anyone.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Chandler said soberly. “…Sorry about your throat. Did I hurt you?”

“I’m quite alright,” Victor assured him. There was another explosion of thunder, and despite himself, Victor shuddered.

“It’s just loud noise and lights, Doc,” Mr. Chandler pointed out.

Victor couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve studied them, learned all I can about the science behind them, and yet I—” Victor sighed and turned, looking out the window. It was almost better if he could see what was happening, predict it in some way. “To this day, I still can’t sleep during a storm.”

“You sure picked a hell of a city to live in, then,” Mr. Chandler pointed out with a chuckle. “One of these days I’ll take you to the New Mexico territory. There, all you gotta worry about at night is the snakes. And the coyotes. And lack of water, I suppose. Or robbers slitting your throat and stealing your horses—”

“And I’m the morbid one,” Victor muttered, rolling his eyes and cracking a small smile as he glanced at Mr. Chandler.

“That smile looks good on you, you know,” Mr. Chandler said, watching him from across the room, hands in his pockets. Victor became flustered and dropped his gaze, staring at the carpet. “You shouldn’t work so much. Do something that makes you happy,” he suggested.

“Success makes me happy,” Victor immediately responded.

Mr. Chandler shook his head with a smile. “Suit yourself, then.”

Another eruption of thunder made Victor inhale sharply, his body tensing through the seconds-long sound of the sky cracking apart. He closed his eyes, just for a second, just to steady himself, and felt Mr. Chandler’s strong arm wrap around his shoulders. Victor, confused, opened his eyes wide, but allowed his body to be pulled closer to the other man’s, so that they were pressed together.

“Don’t you worry, I won’t let it get ya,” Mr. Chandler joked. He was using humor to deflect the awkwardness of the touch, Victor knew that, yet he appreciated the gesture. He’d never imagined embracing Ethan Chandler would ever make him feel comforted or safe, and yet here he was, leaning into the other man’s arms.

“If anyone could fight off a thunderstorm, it _would_ be you,” Victor muttered. Slowly, uncertainly, he returned Mr. Chandler’s embrace, placing his hands gingerly on the taller man’s back.

“Is that a compliment, Doctor?” Mr. Chandler asked wryly.

Victor knew he could say no. He could deflect the question, wrap his answer in any number of labyrinthine phrases to distance himself from Mr. Chandler. To downplay the sudden swell of emotions that was at play in his chest. It was the dimness of the room, the secluded atmosphere, the late hour that was making him so foolish and unguarded. But Victor chose not to heed any of that.

“Yes, Mr. Chandler, it is. To my surprise as well as yours,” he replied quietly. Victor, ignoring the sound of his own elevated pulse in his ears, turned his gaze upward, locking eyes with Mr. Chandler. The other man’s eyes held no answers; they were just as uncertain as he himself felt. Victor felt Mr. Chandler’s breath catch in his chest, and realized how long they had been standing like that, holding one another. Slowly, musing on his own reluctance, Victor let go. Only then did Mr. Chandler follow his lead. “You should sleep,” Victor pointed out.

“So should you.” Seeing Victor’s skeptical expression, Mr. Chandler continued, “At least lie down. You can have the bed.”

Trying to gather some semblance of self-possession, Victor straightened up and walked nonchalantly across the room. “There’s no sense in either of us suffering on that sofa. There’s enough room for both of us here,” he said casually.

“You sure?” Mr. Chandler asked quietly.

Victor knew what he was really asking: whether or not Victor would be comfortable sharing a bed with him. The two had never been close, and were perhaps not even friends, really. But they had spent a considerable amount of time together, and tonight, something had changed. Something inexplicable, something that very well might dissolve in the morning light, but the two had grown closer, had reached new ground.

“Believe it or not, Mr. Chandler, my years of scientific training have given me the ability to estimate the size of a bed,” Victor responded teasingly, moving quickly past any tension that either of them may have felt about the situation.

Mr. Chandler rolled his eyes, but smirked. The pair settled down, lying on their backs slightly uncomfortably in their trousers and shirtsleeves, listening to the crackle of the fire and the battering of rain against the windowpane. They were silent for a while, each occupied with his own thoughts. There was, they discovered, just enough room to lie without touching one another. If they so chose. The memory of their embrace was still fresh in Victor’s mind; he reimagined the scene in his head again and again.

Mr. Chandler’s words eventually cut through his reverie. “I’m sorry about your mother. She made it to Heaven though, I’m sure.”

“If anyone ever deserved it, she did,” Victor whispered as he stared up at the ceiling.

“You would’ve made her proud, I’ll bet,” Mr. Chandler murmured.

Victor couldn’t help himself; he let out a bitter laugh. “No, I wouldn’t have. But it’s kind of you to say, Mr. Chandler.”

“You can call me Ethan, you know,” he said, turning onto his side to face Victor.

Victor shifted slightly as well, so that he could just make out Ethan’s eyes in the dim firelight. “Very well. I’ll bear that in mind. Ethan,” he added softly. Something had indeed changed between them that night. Gathering his courage, Victor tested the bounds of their new rapport; he reached out, putting an arm around Ethan’s frame and moving slightly closer to him. Wordlessly, Ethan returned the gesture.

The two made themselves comfortable, nestled together. Victor buried his face in the crook of Ethan’s neck, and Ethan’s thumb traced small circles on Victor’s back. It was good to be so close. Victor abandoned any thought of embarrassment, of how they would feel upon waking thus entwined. All he cared about was the absolute comfort that he somehow found in Ethan’s arms. Victor knew that some of the best things in this world, the most pure, the most beautiful, were unfathomable, inexplicable. This was no different.

The two fell asleep easily that night, rocked into their dreams by each other’s steady breathing and the patter of the rain.


End file.
